Page 17 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

Emilie folded and refolded the freshly pressed handkerchief in her lap until it was little more than a soft rag. The Comte’s carriage turned down a new street, hitting a pothole in the road, and she was jolted sideways against the cushioned wall. It did nothing to calm her frayed nerves.

Since her last interview with Vergelles she had been anxiously awaiting his next summons. She’d considered refusing, but fearing what he might do in retaliation had forced her to accept. So, here she was travelling to meet him at the Café Procope.

Another bump in the road made her look down and see the wilted mess of handkerchief. She sniffed, took a deep breath, and folded the linen square before putting it away. The Comte may have exposed her nerves on their last encounter, but that did not mean she had to leave herself open for him to see them again today.

It wasn’t just a matter of protecting herself from the man she now knew was as cruel as she had feared. It was playing the game until she could find a way to deal herself out. After all, the Comte had made her lack of power clear.

The carriage drew to a halt across the road from the café and Emilie dropped her window to signal the servant at the door of the establishment. A few moments later a server crossed the road to her.

“A pot of coffee, s’il vous plait, and a message for the Comte de Vergelles— Mademoiselle Cadeaux awaits his pleasure.”

The servant bobbed, turning to dart between passing traffic, and disappeared inside the café.

Emilie flexed the hand she had used to open the window. She’d done so without thinking, and the movement had caused burning sensations to break out across the back of it again.

It was a souvenir from her last interview with the Comte. To illustrate his point that he paid for Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s apartments, that he bought her fine dresses and jewellery, and that he had enabled her to enter Polite Society on his arm, he had dashed the contents of his smouldering pipe across her hand. Before allowing her to fetch water to bathe the wound or clean linen to dress it, he had explained at length that his patronage of her, and her insistence on taking time to decide whether she would be his mistress, was becoming untenable.

Then he’d brought up the Duke of Tremaine.

She’d known such an interrogation was coming ever since Madame Pertuis’ musical night, but the height of the Comte’s anger she had not expected. He’d raged at her for speaking to the Duke and questioned her on what she had found to say to the Englishman for so long at the recital.

Emilie had denied any wrongdoing, carefully skirting the issue of what they had discussed. With much placating and gentle words she had smoothed the Comte’s ruffled feathers enough that he had allowed her to attend to her wound.

And he had given her an ultimatum. She had one week to decide on his offer.

He had not reiterated his threats of what would happen if she refused him, but they were clear. She would be ruined. Her friend Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette would suffer the same fate, and Emilie would come to physical harm.

The invisible snare around her neck tightened. She had to get out of this mess. But until a plan presented itself in her mind she was trapped, and she must play her part as the Comte’s companion.

The door of the Café Procope opened across the road. Emilie slowed her breathing, pressing her hands together to control their trembling, and forcing down the sudden panic rising within her.

She watched several men exit the establishment. First Dartois, then the Comte, and finally the Duke of Tremaine whose eyes immediately caught hers. They did not move on, his gaze locking with hers, his look so penetrating she wondered how many of her thoughts he could read from this distance.

Dartois pointed out the Comte’s carriage across the way, and the gentlemen looked to cross the road when the traffic permitted. The whole time Tremaine’s eyes did not leave Emilie’s. She pressed her legs together beneath her skirts, willing herself to calm down as her breath came faster.

She must act indifferent. She could show no emotion if she wished to protect herself against the Comte’s wrath. Yet the Duke’s gaze would not leave her. They came to the other side of the carriage, out of the road, and she dropped the window to greet them.

“Good day, Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” Dartois called in a jovial voice.

When Emilie met the Marquis’ eyes, she remembered his conversation with her two weeks since. It was not just the Comte she had to tread carefully with.

“Bonjour,” she murmured.

The Comte merely inclined his head. His failing to greet her, despite summoning her here, did not bode well.

“You remember His Grace, the Duke of Tremaine—our English friend.” Dartois’ manner was so pleasant Emilie could almost believe she’d imagined his ominous offer.

“Bonjour, Your Grace.” Emilie inclined her head.

“Mademoiselle Cadeaux, your obedient servant.” The Duke bowed a little lower and longer than he needed to. “I trust I find you in good health?”

In spite of her best efforts, he managed to catch her eyes again as he rose, and she saw in them a real earnestness.

“Quite well,” she murmured, breaking her gaze and finding something in the middle distance to focus on. She could still feel him looking at her, and as she’d turned away she’d seen a slight furrow in his brow.

“We all get along so well,” Dartois said, ever-immune to the tension rolling off the Comte. “We shall make a très joyeuse party at my hunting lodge, n’est pas?”

“We shall?” Emilie asked, eyes flicking between the Comte, the Duke and Dartois.

“Oui—next weekend,” the Comte replied. “We will attend.”

Her fear took a brief hiatus in the face of a sudden flash of irritation. She had borne the Comte’s wrath for nothing. The Duke was ignoring her warnings.

Only those who were trusted were invited to Dartois’ hunting lodge. It was where matters of business were discussed to which Emilie was not privy. She had only been there twice during her relationship with the Comte and both times she had spent the majority of her days there alone, occupying herself in the gardens when she was turned out of the gatherings of Vergelles and his men.

Emilie had intended to visit her friends in the ?le de la Cité on Friday. Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette had sent her a note to tell her another collection of the actresses’ tips was ready to be dispensed to the poor. Those plans would have to wait.

“You shall be the belle of the party,” Dartois said, leaning in at the carriage window, his hand inches from where hers rested.

The action was harmless enough to those who had not experienced the Marquis’ conversation with Emilie. She could not help removing her hand to her lap to avoid an involuntary touch. Just as she did this, Lutin—who had been very content curled up under her skirts, acting in lieu of a warming brick between her feet—woke up.

The canine’s ears had not failed him. He took one look at Dartois—his sworn enemy—and erupted into a series of angry barks.

“Urgh!” Dartois lept back as the dog jumped up at the window. “Maudit ce chien infernal!” He began checking his hand and arm for bite marks.

“You brought that infernal dog of yours?” snapped the Comte.

“Ah, the petit diable,” the Duke of Tremaine murmured, smiling over at Lutin’s fierce little face.

The Comte shot the Englishman a venomous look.

“I have tried to be his friend,” said Dartois testily, “but he will have none of me. I cannot like him.”

“Animals have a sixth sense when it comes to humans. His penchant for snapping at you is no doubt driven by it.”

Was the Duke saying Lutin sensed something he didn’t like in the Marquis? Emilie’s eyes darted to the English noble as she simultaneously grabbed Lutin’s collar to stay his jumping. Tremaine’s comment was as if he could read Emilie’s recent fears about the Marquis right out of her own mind. But when she saw the Duke smiling in that languid way of his, a gleam in his eye, she realised he was simply funning at Dartois’ expense.

The tension which was still very much present in her body intensified. If the Comte saw the Duke exchanging meaningful glances with her, even if only in humour and nothing else, she was sure he would exact a payment.

“Pardon.”

A servant from the Café Procope had crossed the street and was now attempting to gain access to the carriage window. He carried a pewter tray bearing a pot of coffee and a single cup.

“Merci,” Emilie said as the server threaded his way skilfully between the nobles and held out the tray for her to serve herself.

Lutin made no demur as she released his collar and began pouring the hot drink, tendrils of steam rising and twisting in the air.

“Are we to wait for you to finish?” Vergelles asked.

Emilie halted halfway through pouring, glancing at the Comte and then back at the pot in her hands.

“I’m sure the lady may finish her drink before we set off,” Dartois said smoothly.

Emilie found herself grateful for the Marquis’ intervention, once again confused over his seeming split personalities.

“Very well, but I will not travel with that beast.” Vergelles pointed his ebony cane at Lutin’s head, just visible over the carriage door, as he still stood on his hind legs. “Must you go everywhere with that thing?”

“On this point I must concur, Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” Dartois said. “Your canine companion is less than affable.”

A sudden wave of irrational fear crashed over Emilie as she thought of being parted from Lutin. The little dog made her feel marginally safer. She could hardly reply to the Comte and Marquis with that as her reasoning.

Before she could think of a suitably placating response, Vergelles commanded her to get out of the carriage so they might walk to Sebastien’s.

“My driver will take that dog of yours back to your lodgings where he belongs.”

Without waiting for her consent, the Comte signalled for the driver to let down the steps, and then turned to the Marquis de Dartois to discuss the particulars of their meeting with Sebastien.

Emilie, having not taken a single sip of coffee, replaced it on the server’s tray and paid him for his vain service. She picked up her gloves from the seat beside her, having previously removed them to warm her hands with her coffee. The movement caused the wound on the back of her right hand to sting afresh.

It was a raw reminder of the Comte’s anger and her current inability to escape it. Emilie tried to school her breathing into a steady pace. It had grown fast and shallow with the Comte’s foul mood and the memories the pain in her hand conjured.

As the door of the carriage opened she took a steadying breath, stroking Lutin’s head rhythmically, telling herself that the ringing in her ears would abate. The idea of leaving the safety of the carriage and her little white shadow behind… Breathe, Emilie… Breathe.

As she placed an unsteady foot on the first step a strong, steady hand took her elbow. It took her weight, guiding her down from the steps as she focused on a single cobble below. As she reached solid ground, she looked up to find it was neither the Comte nor Dartois who aided her.

It was the Duke of Tremaine.

“Mademoiselle.” He bowed towards her, his gloved hand slipped down her arm to hold her hand lightly.

His continued support caused her breathing to slow and the ringing in her ears to abate.

Emilie glanced towards the Comte, but Vergelles’ back was still turned as he was now in deep discussion with Dartois, speaking forcefully in rapid French. She couldn’t risk them suddenly turning and seeing Tremaine holding her hand. She tried to pull back from the Duke’s grasp, but his grip tightened on her fingers in response.

Emilie gazed up into his eyes and was startled to see concern there.

“You have injured yourself?” he murmured, too low for their companions to hear, and looking meaningfully down at the bandage on her hand.

She tried to pull her hand away again, mild panic rising within, and this time Tremaine released it. A thread in the bandage caught on his sleeve, tugging it loose as she dropped her hand.

“I do not wish to alarm you.”

The Duke had misread her gasp of pain as one of shock.

“You seem… anxious.”

Her eyes darted again to the Comte and she scolded herself inwardly for allowing her feelings to be interpreted so easily. Then she looked down to the bandage that had unravelled from her hand. She turned her back to Vergelles and Dartois, reaching for the loose strip of fabric and raising her hand to unfurl it and rebandage the injury.

For a brief moment the red, ugly, blistering skin was revealed.

“That’s a nasty wound.”

She tried to hide it from the Duke, the pain fraying her temper. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing. You would do well to cover it with a poultice to prevent infection and encourage healing. I can send my old housekeeper’s best recipe to your address. Tell me how you came by the burn?”

Emilie sighed, the pain overcoming her resolve. “I told you, there are consequences when one gets involved with dangerous men. But please,” she pleaded, loathing the fearful tone in her own voice, “we must not be overheard.”

“Of course.” The Duke’s eyes—as they looked upon her—were the softest she had ever seen them. When he glanced over at the Comte, the change was swift and remarkable. Fury transformed his features and brought a blazing light to his eyes.

“You warned me. I have been careless. I ignorantly believed your warning only applied to me. Why did he hurt you?”

Emilie shrugged impatiently. “The Comte is jealous of his privacy. He wished to know exactly what I had said to you. What secrets I had divulged. I told him none. He wished to be sure.”

He bowed his head in apology. “Please forgive me.”

She struggled to concentrate fully on the Duke’s apology for fear that the Comte might overhear their conversation. She glanced over at her benefactor whose back was still turned to them. Vergelles’ foot tapped on the floor, and Emilie could see the conversation between him and Dartois was petering off. No doubt he was waiting for Emilie to come to his side. His anger at her bringing Lutin meant he would not deign to turn and take her onto his arm.

“It is not you who burned me. Will you now desist whatever obsession you have with doing business with the Comte?”

She looked imploringly up at the Duke and saw his troubled brow furrow, his eyes more apologetic than ever.

“I cannot explain to you why I am unable to do as you advise. Please trust me that it is important I engage the Comte in friendship.”

Emilie’s lips parted a little as she stared at him in bewilderment. He had inadvertently seen the damage the Comte had done just because she spoke to Tremaine and yet the Duke would still pursue this relationship?

“Then I will beg of you to stay away from me. I do not wish to be burned twice by whatever foolishness you pursue. And there are others whose wellbeing relies on me.” She stepped forward and the Duke immediately bowed and moved away to allow her passage. She did not look at him again or loiter any longer. Coming alongside the Comte, she curtseyed to him and apologised for upsetting his morning by bringing Lutin.

“I await your pleasure, my Lord.”

The French noble looked down at her from the corner of his eyes and gave the smallest jerk of his head in acceptance of her submission. He then raised the silver head of his ebony cane, signalling the coachman to leave, and there emitted a new stream of indignant barks from the Comte’s carriage as Lutin was taken—unwillingly—away.

Emilie felt her heart squeeze at her poor pet’s confusion.

“I can walk you as far as the H?tel des Invalides,” said the Duke of Tremaine from behind her. Emilie refused to turn and catch his eye again. “And then I must return to my cousin’s offices.”

The party struck out, Dartois explaining the location of his hunting lodge to Tremaine, and the Comte maintaining his characteristic silence. Emilie did the same, not wanting to rouse any more ire from her benefactor.

When they reached the spot where their paths were destined to diverge, the group stopped to say farewell.

“And if you should have news of the investment before next weekend,” asked Tremaine, “how can I expect to hear from you?”

Feeling safe to look at him once more, Emilie noticed that the bored facade was back in place upon the Duke’s face, and his characteristic drawl had overcome the earnestness in his voice from when he spoke to her earlier.

“I cannot vouch for my cousin not intercepting my post. He’s my uncle’s spy at present, I have no doubt.”

The Comte’s arm stiffened beneath Emilie’s hand.

“We will contact you, should we need to,” the Comte replied coolly.

“We have our ways.” Dartois expanded on his friend’s answer. “Have no fear.”

The Duke looked as if he might say something but thought better of it. Instead he tapped his cane to the brim of his hat and bowed low to Emilie.

“I shall bit you all adieu. Take care, Mademoiselle Cadeaux.”

He rose without catching her eyes again and turned on his heel to saunter away.

“And what do you think of the English Duke attending our little house party?” the Comte asked Emilie as soon as they were on their way again.

This was a trap.

“I am surprised,” Emilie said with a shrug. “I find him très ennuyeux, and I thought you did too, my Lord.”

Dartois laughed. “Très bien, Mademoiselle. He is a bore with his constant crass chatter about money. Do not worry your pretty head about it. We shall keep him from boring you, shall we not, Vergelles?”

“Oui—though I could have been fooled into thinking you thought him engaging by the way you spoke to him previously.”

“Politeness,” Emilie said quickly. “Not interested in his conversation.”

Dartois erupted into laughter again. “Your Mademoiselle Cadeaux is so very sharp-witted, Lucien, I would not be surprised if she were cleverer than us all.”

“Not clever enough to understand the Duke of Tremaine’s usefulness,” the Comte snarled. “And I thought you were quite taken with the Duke of Tremaine, Mademoiselle.”

Emilie would not be baited. “No, my Lord. But if it pleases you to have him at the hunting lodge, I shall bear the tedium.”

“Tedious people have their uses,” Lucien said.

“Indeed they do,” Dartois said. “And this tedious Duke might prove very useful indeed.”